Grant Me In Death
by auri mynonys
Summary: When she falls into the Black Sleep, Eowyn finds that there are many shadows who want to destroy her - and one who will do anything to save her. One-shot for 13 o'clock Erik.


**Disclaimer: **Property of J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just borrowing them.

**A/N: **Much-belated Christmas present for 13 o'clock Erik, who rocks my soul with his awesome.

*

Darkness pressed in around Éowyn, darkness that was not the dark of night but blacker, the impenetrable dark of dreams. She thought at first that her eyes were closed, but when she reached up to touch her face, to rub the sleep from her eyes, she found them open. Slow terror sank into her bones. Where was she? Had she been sleeping before? What had she awakened to?

She sat up slowly and found that she ached everywhere; her arm particularly burned, and when she touched it she cried out sharply in pain. She looked down and saw that it had purpled with hideous bruises – broken. She touched it again and flinched, but bit down on the cry just in time.

She took a moment to examine her surroundings, but she could see nothing aside from herself. She assumed she was on a bed; she could feel soft furs all around her, but they were as dark as the air.

"Hello?" she called. Her voice cracked unpleasantly, hoarse and scratchy. "Hello?" she tried again.

Things flickered in the edge of her vision, but when she turned her head there was only the blackness. Her heart leapt against her ribs as she turned this way, then that, trying to catch a glimpse of the moving things. Finally, whatever they were, they stilled.

Éowyn knew she should get up and attempt to find a way out of the room, but she felt certain that if she touched the floor something would leap out and devour her. It was perhaps a childish fear, but here in this room of nightmares it seemed reasonable.

"Is someone there?" Éowyn called, but her voice was little more than a whisper.

Voices began to murmur. She strained to hear them, leaning forward on the bed. Though they were low and indiscernible, the voices sounded close, as if they were right outside some hidden door. Her eyes scanned the air around her, but the darkness was impenetrable – no break, no crack of light indicated any kind of escape.

Éowyn gave a frustrated snarl and crawled a few inches forward, trying to hear what they voices were saying. Occasionally she caught snippets of words: her name, a number, city names. Were they discussing battles?

She remembered abruptly that she had been fighting before she appeared here. She had been standing on the Fields of Pelennor before the Witch King, defending her uncle.

How had she come to be here?

She shuddered. The room around her was unnaturally cold; her fingers were tingling painfully and the tip of her nose was starting to go numb. She wondered how she hadn't noticed before. She sank back onto the bed, gripping the furs with her good hand and dragging them up around her.

She felt at her hip for a weapon, but there was no belt or hilt. She wore only a simple shift, pale and soft. It glowed faintly beneath the furs. Éowyn wondered where the light was coming from; she certainly did not cast a natural glow. She shivered again and wrapped the furs more tightly around herself. Her hair tumbled across it like sunlight, a bright streak that glimmered yet still managed to illuminate nothing.

The voices outside were angry now, and louder. Once was deep, a growl practically; the other might have been a smooth, buttery sort of voice if not for the anger in it. As it rose and fell, it cracked – afraid, perhaps? It sounded remarkably familiar.

"She is not – " said the second voice, before dropping off.

"She is not for you, either," hissed the first voice.

"I will not let you – " The voices were soft again, mere whispers.

They were talking about her.

Éowyn clenched her fist under the furs. Who were these people holding her prisoner? Was this some orc trick? But why would orcs even think to take her prisoner? She would be nothing to them, just a soldier – albeit a braver one than they might have anticipated, since she had stood before the Witch King.

She had killed him, she realized dully. She had killed the Witch King. At least, it seemed she had. The way his helmet had crumbled, the unearthly scream – had these been his death throes? Perhaps that was why they had taken her. She drew her injured arm closer to her and tried to calm her racing thoughts. They would surely never let her live for this injury to the Dark Lord. She would be tormented, used for information, destroyed. She need a plan of attack should any of these things come to pass.

The voices, she realized suddenly, had stopped.

Worried, she let the furs drop away and dragged herself forward to the edge of the bed. They had been just outside; where would they have gone? Had they left her unguarded? She searched the darkness again, but it gave her no hints.

Slowly, she inched forward. She drew in a deep breath and swung her legs off the edge of the bed. The bed must have been high up, for she could not feel the floor. Cautiously, she pushed herself off –

And found herself falling.

She tried to scream, but her voice seemed to be gone again, swallowed whole by the blackness around her. She scrabbled for a handhold, for anything to cling to, but she was surrounded only by thin air.

_Help me,_ she begged silently. _Someone, help me._

She hit the ground with an ugly _thud_, landing on her already broken arm. She screamed in pain, and this time the scream was torn from her throat, left to echo and bounce around whatever black chamber she had found herself trapped inside. She tried to push herself to her feet, but her good arm gave out and she fell back to the floor in a heap.

She bit back angry tears, clenching her good fist. This was an all-too familiar feeling of helplessness, of uselessness. She could do nothing to save herself. She could do nothing to save anyone. She was baggage, dead weight, a caged creature left in the cold and dark to die.

"Here."

The voice was startlingly loud against the previous silence. Éowyn looked up, but could not quite see the face of the figure looming before her. The shape held out pale hands and pulled her gently to her feet. She cringed as her arm jerked against her side.

"That looks ugly," said the figure. "Here, let me."

The right hand reached out and closed over her arm, stroking it tenderly. Éowyn stared at it with blank eyes; she had the nagging sensation that she knew those fingers. Wherever they touched, bruises disappeared and pain faded. Éowyn watched in awe as her arm was healed before her eyes.

"But, how – " she began, turning to look at her rescuer.

Then she saw his face.

"You!" she cried, and stepped back, clutching her now-healed arm close to her.

Wormtongue stepped into the slowly increasing pool of light, regarding her with sad eyes. "Éowyn," he said.

"But my brother – I was told –"

"Yes," Wormtongue said, cutting her off. "I am dead. And you are nearly so."

She stared at him, dumbfounded. "I – " she started, but paused. Of course she was nearly dead. She had fought the Witch King. How could she expect to survive such an encounter?

"What's happening?" she quavered.

Gríma took a few steps towards her. She moved back, glaring. "Stay away from me," she commanded.

He stopped and clenched his jaw. "You asked for help," he said. "I came."

"I did not ask for _you_!" she cried.

Gríma folded his hands in front of him, lifting his chin. "I am afraid that here, you cannot afford to be selective, my Lady," he said. "This is the world of your nightmares, and what help you receive can only come from them who are willing to assist. I am afraid that among all the things you fear, you will find that only I am happy to oblige you."

Éowyn looked around her. She was nearing the edge of the small pool of light. Above her the blackness was swirling. "My nightmares?" she repeated, her voice very small.

His gaze softened. "Yes."

She wrapped her arms around herself. It was growing cold again. "Why am I being brought to such a place?" she asked.

"You did not seriously believe you could kill the Witch King and escape unscathed, did you?" He sounded scornful, mocking almost. Éowyn glared at him. He shrugged. "For every action there are consequences," he said. "And when you die, before you can rest, you must face those consequences."

"I suppose you too faced down your nightmares?" she muttered.

Gríma's composure slipped, and he shivered. "I am still facing them," he murmured, looking her in the eye.

She lifted her chin. "You never feared me," she said.

"No," Gríma replied, "But I feared what would happen to you if you were not protected." He looked upwards, a slow and steady gaze filled with such terror that Éowyn felt herself begin to shake. "And I was right to fear," he said. "Look what you have done to yourself."

Éowyn drew in a deep, solid breath, and calmed herself. "Very little, it would seem," she said. "This world of nightmares has done hardly any damage to me yet. I do not fear you."

"Apparently you do, or I would not be here," Gríma said.

Éowyn reached up to touch her hair; it was flowing loose and free. It would get in her way should anything attack. She lifted her hands and separated it, weaving it into thick braids. "You said you were still facing your nightmares," she said. "Perhaps that is why I can see you."

Gríma shook his head. "If you did not still fear me, I would see you – but you would not recognize my presence." He frowned as he observed her. "What are you doing?"

"Preparing," Éowyn replied, inelegantly tying her two braids together at the back of her head. "I don't suppose you brought me a weapon? That would have been truly useful."

Wormtongue smiled thinly. "You need no weapons here," he said. "They would be useless, anyway."

"You cannot face an enemy unarmed," Éowyn snapped. "There must be something – "

"Éowyn." Gríma's voice was gentle, but the tone terrified her. "There is no real way to arm yourself against the things you fear. The only thing you can do is face them."

"No," Éowyn said fiercely. "There must be something – "

The ground beneath them trembled, sending them stumbling towards the edges of the circle of light. Bone-chilling shrieks echoed down the chamber – the screams of the Nazgûl. Éowyn felt a wave of terror wash over her, but she hissed and forced herself to breathe; she had defeated their King before, and even here, she could do it again.

Wormtongue did not find it so easy to recover. He scampered back on hands and knees, his eyes wide and darting. "Do they all now come for you?" he whispered.

Éowyn gave a frustrated sigh. "Get up," she said, offering her hand. "If you came to help, you cannot be useful cowering on the ground like a snake."

He took her hand, rising to his feet, but he did not release her. He clutched her fingers in a bone-crushing grip, staring intently into her face. "They mean to destroy you before he can save you," he said. "They will see you dead for what you have done – "

The ground shook again, and Éowyn stumbled against Gríma. He clung to her waist now, raking his nails lower, across her hip. She hissed in pain and tried to push him away, but he would not release her. "Éowyn," he groaned, hiding his face in her hair. "Éowyn, they will destroy you, they will see you dead yet…"

Panic coursed through Éowyn's veins. "Gríma," she gasped, "You're hurting me, stop – let me go – !"

"No." His tone had changed, steely and cold now. "No. I will not let them harm you."

"You will kill us both like this!" Éowyn said desperately. "Please, let me go!"

He pressed his face into her shoulder and clung to her. "They mean to destroy you," he said, "And me with you…"

Éowyn was about to reply when she spotted something darting just out of reach of the small cage of light around them. She froze, eyes trying to follow the creature. "Gríma," she said softly.

He didn't respond, except by tightening his grip.

The thing in the shadows hissed, softly. Éowyn felt her gut clench in fear. "What is in the darkness?" she whispered.

"Who knows?" Gríma said. "The night leaves us all blind. And what hides there differs from man to woman."

"I – I think I see – "

Gríma lifted his head and looked her in the eyes. "Yes. They've come for you."

She cringed at the certainty in his voice. "Then what should I do?"

"Nothing." He reached up to touch her face, stroking her cheek with a feather-light caress. "I won't let them touch you."

She lifted her chin. "I can fight my own battles," she said.

He smiled grimly. "Yes, I imagine everyone knows that now," he said. "But this is terrain you do not understand. You are at war with shadows, my Lady, and you have always feared the dark."

She started to deny it, but realized there was no point.

"Who knows the darkness better than I?" Gríma continued. "Who has waltzed with shadows and lingered where all is black? Certainly not you; you at least I never tempted into the night. You do not understand darkness, but I do. I will keep you safe."

"But – "

"Éowyn, grant me in death what you would not in life," Gríma said. "Let me save you."

"Save me?" Éowyn repeated indignantly. "Was that your intent in betraying and weakening my country? _Saving_ me?"

Gríma regarded her with such dread that Éowyn almost did not dare question him again. "Yes," he said simply.

She clenched her teeth. "You could have saved hundred, thousands more," she said. "You could have protected our country, kept my father alive, our people safe – !"

"Do you honestly think Saruman would have let me live, had I rejected his bargain?" Gríma said. "Do you think he would have let me walk away and betray his plans to you, to the king?" He touched her face again, the pressure greater. "I loved you," he said. "I loved you, and I wanted to save you from the fate Saruman had planned for you."

"It would have been better to die with my people – "

"You would not have died with them," Gríma said, "But in a place like this, surrounded by terrors that would eat you alive."

Éowyn lifted her chin. "It seems I am to die that way anyway," she observed.

Gríma snarled. The sound startled her so much that she leapt back, or tried to; but he still clung to her. "I will not let you," he growled. "I can still save you."

The shadows were shifting en masse; the circle of light was growing smaller. Éowyn could hear the hissing growing louder, a series of ugly whispers and half-murmured threats. Fear coiled around Éowyn's heart and squeezed, a serpent crushing its prey. She searched again for some kind of weapon, anything to fight them – but there was nothing.

"What do we do?" she whispered.

He pressed his face into her hair. "You?" he said. "You do nothing. Your fate will soon be out of my hands. I can feel it; life is coming into you, slowly. Look at yourself."

She looked. She was glowing, more brightly now than before in the black chamber. "What does it mean?"

"It means you are coming back to life," Gríma said. "It means you will not die."

She looked up into his face. He seemed substantial enough under her hands, but he was dark and half-transparent, a thing of dreams. "And you are dead," she said.

He shrugged. "It was, I suppose, only fair given my crimes. But you…" He touched her cheek. "You do not deserve to die."

The circle was growing still smaller. Éowyn thought she could make out beady eyes in the dark, thousands of them. She caught glimpses of billowing cloaks and ugly, shining blades, twisted and coiled unpleasantly. The things in the dark were agitated, spitting at her and reaching out to grab her. A hand snaked into the circle and reached for her arm, but in a flash Gríma had it and had thrown the thing back.

She looked at him, startled. She had always believed him to be a coward. "They will kill you," she whispered.

He laughed and waved a hand. "How can they?" he said. "I'm already dead."

Beneath his bravado she sensed fear. She looked around her; now she could distinctly make out creatures, all wriggling and darting over and around one another. The shadows were living things, slithering here and there around the puddle of light.

"They'll hurt you," she whispered.

He smiled grimly. "I doubt anyone would say that I don't deserve such a fate."

Éowyn met his eyes. "You may deserve it," she said. "But I would never leave anyone to face such monsters, no matter their crimes. Surely I can do something – "

The smile was softer now, tender. He reached out and touched her cheek. "You cannot save a dead man, my Lady."

She reached up and touched his hand; she could barely feel it under her own. She was solid, and he was smoke. "Gríma," she whispered.

Another shadow darted inside the circle, and then another. They all reached out for her, teeth glinting in the ever-fainter light.

"No!" Gríma snapped, leaping in front of her. "You cannot touch her until I have. I have a wizard's promise."

Éowyn stared at him, stunned and betrayed. "Saruman – but – "

The shadows drew back, leering at her. Gríma turned to face her, and his eyes were bleak. "Say not a word," he murmured, and kissed her.

She almost pulled back, but she could feel him clinging to her, arms wrapped tightly around her waist. She stood silent and still in his arms and wondered what he was at.

_It's very simple, _said Gríma in her head, _They believe I intend you as much harm as they do; they believe you fear this, and me – as, perhaps, you do. And they believe that in doing this I harm you. But you need not fear, I will still save you._

_How? _Éowyn asked.

_You will live, _said Gríma. _Isn't that enough?_

_What will they do to you?_

He shivered in her arms. She caught a few brief flashes of shadows tearing at his limbs, ripping him to bits – but then the images were gone.

_It won't be so bad,_ he said.

The shadows around them closed in; they were growing impatient. Gríma pressed closer to her. She realized it was harder to feel the pressure of him, the warmth of another body. He was growing weaker and she stronger. He was becoming a thing of the dead, and she was returning to life.

She thought a few times she could feel his heart beating against hers, but the sound was so faint and the hissing around them so loud she couldn't be sure.

The shadows drew nearer, and the circle of light was the pair of them only, the diameter of their bodies. Outside the shadows spat and roared, but in the small beam of light Éowyn felt strangely calm.

For a moment, Éowyn felt as though her fingers were scrabbling against some particularly slick surface, something with no handholds; then, beneath her hands, Gríma faded entirely, and light burst all around her. She heard the shadows screaming, but only faintly; she was floating upwards into the realm of human dreams, the dreams of the living.

Delaying tactics, she realized vaguely. That was what Gríma was doing – distracting the shadows as life entered her body, until they could not touch her anymore.

Weakly she slipped back into darkness, of a welcoming sort this time. Somewhere in her mind thoughts of Gríma drifted, but even they faded away shortly, and all consciousness left her. She was breath and blood and muscle, flesh and silence and dark.

She was alive.

*

In the Houses of Healing, Éowyn slept peacefully.

Éomer held her hand tightly in his, watching her calm features with tired eyes. It had been a long time since she had slept quietly; her features had been an ever-shifting tapestry of terror and rage in the past hours. She had thrashed about sometimes, even as Aragorn and Gamling had tried to hold her down. Worse were the times when she went completely still and became pale as death, when her heart beat sluggishly and to touch her was like plunging a hand beneath the frozen surface of a lake in winter.

Now at last she was at rest, her breathing slow and even, her expression unremarkable.

Aragorn slipped into the room, approaching Éomer silently. "She looks much improved," he observed, his voice soft.

Éomer started and turned to look at him. "Indeed she does," he agreed. "Do you think she'll live?"

Aragorn pressed a hand to her forehead. "Aye, she'll live," he said, stepping away from her. "She is a strong woman."

"And a foolish one," Éomer said. He clung to her hand, pressing his forehead to her knuckles. "If I had lost her – if she had died – it was terrible enough losing my cousin, my uncle, but her too – "

Aragorn laid a hand on his shoulder. "But she did not," he said. "She lives, and she has done us all a worthy service. Her name shall be remembered as she would want it to be: Éowyn the Shield Maiden, a daughter of great kings, slayer of the Witch King."

Éomer lifted his head, but did not release her hand. "I care not for such titles," he said. "She is my sister, always, and I am grateful that she lives."

Aragorn nodded slowly. "You should get some sleep," he said. "You will need your rest. We must plan our next move as quickly as possible. The Dark Lord will be planning his own counter-attack soon enough."

Éomer nodded reluctantly. He kissed his sister's fingers once more and set her hand back on the bed beside her. "There… there will be healers to watch her all night, won't there?" he asked.

"Of course," Aragorn said, motioning around the room. There were many healers at work; at least one was seated nearby Éowyn's bed, watching her unblinking.

Éomer nodded to the healer, who bowed politely in return. "Let me know if she wakes," he requested. "If… if anything at all changes."

"Lord Éomer, I shall," the healer replied, bowing again.

Éomer cast one last look back at Éowyn, and then followed Aragorn out of the chamber.

In her bed, Éowyn shifted slightly in her sleep and murmured, "Gríma."


End file.
